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Updated: May 25, 2025
Maybe he's got a wife waiting for him over there." "Nom de Dieu!" said Grassette, with suppressed malice, under his breath. "Maybe there's a wife waiting for him, and there's her to think of.
"Good girl Marcile. She loves you, but she is afraid." He tried to say something more, but his tongue refused its office. "Where is she-spik!" commanded Grassette in a tone of pleading and agony now. Once more the flying spirit came back. A hand made a motion towards his pocket, then lay still.
The Governor turned his head away in pain and trouble, for the man's rage was not a thing to see and they both came from the little parish of St. Francis, and had passed many an hour together. "Never mind, Grassette," he said, gently. "Call me what you will. You've got no feeling against me; and I can say with truth that I don't want your life for the life you took." Grassette's breast heaved.
Then he saw himself, his money all gone, but the luck still with him, at Mass on the Sunday before going to the backwoods lumber-camp for the winter, as boss of a hundred men. He had a way with him, and he had brains, had Jacques Grassette, and he could manage men, as Michelin the lumber-king himself had found in a great river-row and strike, when bloodshed seemed certain.
Revolutions are often the work of instants, not years, and the crucial test and problem by which Grassette was now faced had lifted him into a new atmosphere, with a new capacity alive in him. A moment ago his eyes had been bloodshot and swimming with hatred and passion; now they grew, almost suddenly, hard and lurking and quiet, with a strange, penetrating force and inquiry in them.
Grassette imagined that the Governor did not remember who Bignold was, and that this was an appeal against his despair, and against revenging himself on the community which had applauded his sentence.
Here Grassette gave the signal to shout aloud, and the voice of the Sheriff called out: "Hello, Bignold! "Hello! Hello, Bignold! Are you there? Hello!" His voice rang out clear and piercing, and then came a silence-a long, anxious silence. Again the voice rang out: "Hello! Hello-o-o! Bignold! Bigno-o-ld!" They strained their ears. Grassette was flat on the ground, his ear to the earth.
Suddenly he stopped and stood still, looking at something on the ground. They saw him lean forwards and his hands stretch out with a fierce gesture. It was the attitude of a wild animal ready to spring. They were beside him in an instant, and saw at his feet Bignold worn to a skeleton, with eyes starting from his head, and fixed on Grassette in agony and stark fear.
"God forgive me God save my soul!" he whispered. He was not concerned for Grassette now. "Queeck-queeck, where is Marcile?" Grassette said sharply. "Come back, Bignold. Listen where is Marcile?" He strained to hear the answer. Bignold was going, but his eyes opened again, however, for this call seemed to pierce to his soul as it struggled to be free. "Ten years since I saw her," he whispered.
"Jacques Grassette!" he cried in consternation and emotion, for under another name the murderer had been tried and sentenced, nor had his identity been established the case was so clear, the defence had been perfunctory, and Quebec was very far away. "M'sieu'!" was the respectful response, and Grassette's fingers twitched.
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